


The Principle's the Same

by Narkito



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Swearing, World War II, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-30
Updated: 2011-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 20:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narkito/pseuds/Narkito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets wounded on the battle field and they leave him for dead. John, who's just escaped from captivity finds him. Together they start their journey out of enemy territory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That’s a Division, Mate, Try Again.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/8651.html?thread=38763979#t38763979) at the Sherlock Kink Meme.

His head hurts. That’s all he can attest for so far, as most of his other senses, such as the sense of survival, have clearly blinked out of existence after the grenade went out. (Well, perhaps _survival_ was left at home long before this happened). His head hurts, and all the yelling around is not really helping. He opens his eyes against his better judgement, and the headache threatens to split his skull wide open (assuming the explosion didn’t). He can barely see through the wave of dizziness and nausea, and then, he’s out of it again; dead to the world.

When he comes to again, there’s a profound silence that sends a jolt of panic through his body, which, on the bright side, manages to wake up the rest of his senses. It’s later than before, judging by the length of the shadows, and colder, much, much colder. His legs are freezing and his face feels like it could shatter if moved too quickly. He tries to pull himself up, but as soon as he tightens his muscles, all the strength drains out of him in favour of resisting the urge to cry out loud in pain.

He manages to lift his neck and take a look at the place; the scenery has changed quite a bit. A jeep is on fire a good 30 metres away, one third of the wall that was providing cover during the ambush is laying on the ground. A solitary hand attached to what at some point might’ve been an arm, is right in front of him, and Sherlock audibly swallows and tries very hard not to think about it, just like he’s been trying very hard not think that these might be the last things he’ll ever see from this earth; the others have clearly left him for dead, and if he wasn’t dead before, he’s going to be soon, or at least as soon as he’s done bleeding to death. He’s never been a sentimental man, but he figures this would be a decent time to shed a few tears and try his best to repent of all the bad and stupid he’s done in his time, you know, just in case there _is_ an almighty and divine upstairs. He’s had enough fire and burning for a lifetime (and he’s only been officially part of the war for three weeks).

After he’s decided that the coast is as clear as it’s going to get, he tries to move again, this time to roll on his side and, if he can hold the pain long enough, maybe crawl closer to what’s left of the wall, seek some cover.

He’s drenched in sweat by the time he’s fully on his side, so getting to a better position is out of the question by now. He’s got good news, though; he’s not going to die by exsanguination, then again, _he’s not going to die by exsanguination_ , so he needs a plan, fast, and so far shouting for a medic seems like an extremely bad idea. Carefully not to jolt his leg, which is probably broken (just like god-knows how many ribs), he goes through his pockets looking for anything that might help him make an improvised bandage, he might not be in any immediate danger, but he’s bleeding both from the head and his right side, where one of the many sharp shards that were flying around him must’ve graced him. In one of his many back pockets he finds a scarf that goes completely against regulation, and he’s extremely grateful for that. He’s about to pull it out, when he hears steps from the far left, where the jeep had been burning. For a fraction of a second, he absolutely panics, and his heart rate seems to sense the danger of the situation even before the rest of Sherlock’s mind does. So far, he had been trusting to be alone, and have enough time to leave before someone got there.

He then steels himself, closes his eyes and listens. _Steps; still distant, combat boots, a limp, a man, quite possibly wounded. Can’t tell height from this distance, not with pain clouding cognitive skills_. Now, this it only leaves the matter of asserting whether it’s a friend or a foe.

As the stranger gets closer, he continues to play dead (which is fairly easy, considering he’s been doing just that for the past three to four hours; laying on the ground with dirt up to his nostrils). With his eyes more closed than otherwise, he’s absorbing the environment through every available pore, trying to deduce the stranger’s alliance. By the time the stranger is halfway between the burning jeep and him, Sherlock’s certain this is a friend, definitely a friend. This man was still carrying his Lee-Enfield and a handgun at his side. Which, considering Sherlock had all but completely forgotten about the existence of such things until now, was quite impressive.

As the stranger got closer, it became more obvious he was also heavily injured. A huge stain of blood ran down from his left shoulder, where his uniform was ripped and a small lump under there indicated what would most undoubtedly be a bandage. The limp seemed to be something else entirely, though, probably a sprained ankle or something equally innocuous.

Sherlock starts to move, trying to get his attention, to which the stranger quickly reacts by pointing his rifle at him.

“Don’t, I’m on your side.”

“Rank and regiment?” The rifle doesn’t come down, but it’s an action that inflicts enough pain on the stranger that the lines of his forehead deepen with each passing second.

“I’m with the 11th...”

“That’s a division, mate, try again.”

“As far as I know, I’m part of the 11th, plus, I’m a consultant, I don’t have a rank”

“Do you have a name?”

“Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Good, I’m John Watson.” The stranger, _John_ , lowered the rifle with a groan and limped closer to Sherlock. “So, your buddies left you for dead I imagine?”

“Yes, I’m in a bit of a quandary, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Here, let me take a look, I’m a doctor.”

John kneeled beside him and started to go over Sherlock’s head with his hands, feeling it for any other yet undiscovered bumps and assorted injuries. Sherlock took it as an opportunity to have a better look at the doctor. His uniform was ragged and in pretty bad shape. His neck was heavily bruised, especially on the left side, where the bruise turned and angry red way past his collar. _And old gunshot wound, then. A couple of days, at least._ As John started to go over his ribs, Sherlock’s eyes wandered more south and...

“That’s a Luger.”

“Yes it is.”

“What are you doing with a Luger where your regulation gun should be?”

“Let’s just say I lost my regulation gun and had to make do with what I had at hand. I’m done. You seem lucid enough, but you have some nasty cuts in your forehead and torso. I’m thinking one or two broken ribs, all the rest heavily bruised. And your knee is busted. Do you have any medical supplies?”

“No. Do _you_?”

“No. Here, take the gun, I’ll go rummage around for something we can use, if you see a German, shoot it, don’t ask like you asked me, just shoot. Got it?”

“Yeah...”

“Have you ever used a gun before?”

“Yes, at my father’s state, but not this kind.”

“Principle’s the same. I have to go, we’re losing light.”

And with that, John’s gone.

A couple of eternities go by, and the light starts to fade fast enough to be noticeable to the naked eye. By the time John comes back the sun has already hidden behind the mountains, leaving him amongst sombre shadows. He’s also started shivering from the cold; it’s positively freezing and every breath he takes comes out in the form of a white fog. John kneels at his side and pats him on the arm.

“Sherlock, you OK?”

“Alright, what took you so long?”

“What are you talking about? I was gone 20 minutes, max.”

“No, the sun… it’s late… I’m supposed to, I’m supposed to…”

“Shit, you’ve got a fever, dammit!” John starts to frantically go over his bag of recovered goods. He rips open a small paper packet, and pours its contents over Sherlock’s forehead and the rest over his torso. “Listen to me, you need to stay awake. You hear me? Stay awake. I’m going to stabilise your leg and ribs, so we can get out of here, but you need to stay awake. Where you sick before this? Did you have a cold or something?”

“No, I mean, I wasn’t sick yet, but, umm…”

“You hadn’t been feeling well?”

“Yeah, what you said.”

“Alright, well, you probably just upgraded it to pneumonia staying in the cold like this. I’ll work on your leg now, and I’m not going to lie to you, it will hurt, a lot. So here, bite on this belt, ‘cause I don’t want you shouting our position to anybody.”

Sherlock seems to sober up a bit at the idea of _that_ kind of pain. He nods once and promptly bites on the leather belt. John goes to kneel at the side of Sherlock’s leg, asks permission with his eyes one more time and then, with one swift, short motion realigns the articulation with the rest of the leg. Sherlock practically jumps out of his skin, and tears involuntarily go out of the corner of his eyes. For all the cold he’d been feeling lately, his body is soaring in heat now, a pool of it settling far down his throat, threatening to make him sick. For all purposes, his leg has being replaced by a hot rod of incandescent metal that throbs in tandem with his heart. Biting on a flimsy strip of leather is hardly enough to channel all the pain and desperation he’s feeling right now. As the pain wave subdues, he’s mildly aware of John saying something to him, actually, now that his mind catches up, John has been saying something for quite some time.

“Breathe, Sherlock, breathe, but whatever you do, don’t move too much, I haven’t stabilised your ribs yet. Come on, it will pass, just keep breathing.” It goes like a mantra that anchors Sherlock to this reality and soon he’s lucid enough to nod his agreement to John for him to continue.

John bandages the knee and then ties it to a couple of tree branches, also immobilising the foot in the process. Sherlock remains silent during the entire process and hisses under his breath once or twice whilst Johns bandages his ribs.

“You’ve been quiet, how you feel?”

“Like a hand grenade exploded near me.”

“Headache, dizziness, nausea?”

“Yes to all, but less than before.”

“OK, think you can drink water without getting sick?”

“Oh, yes, please!”

“Here, small sips first, alright? Then I need you to swallow one of these.” John produces a small tin box from his bag with yellowish tablets on the inside. _Sulpha tablets, not in their original package. Odd_. Sherlock does as he’s told and after satisfying his initial thirst, he swallows one of the pills with a big gulp of water. He’s about to drink some more, but John catches the canteen and lowers it from his lips.

“This is all the water I could find. We better save some.” Sherlock slumps a little at that, the remnants of the heat wave are still lingering on his system and his body is aching for relief. But he’s right, of course John’s right. “You ready to move?”

“I guess. Yes.” He looks down at his legs and hugs himself more tightly on his coat. John seems to follow his trail of thought and searches the ground, eventually he comes up with walking stick, a proper walking stick, and hands it to him. “Oh?”

“Yeah, I don’t know either; I found it near the door, over at what’s left of the house. There were a few more shattered on the ground. I guess life is funny like that sometimes. Here, let me help you get up, don’t make any sudden movements and we’ll be fine.”

Once they’re both up and panting against the wall. John puts on the bag across his chest, and hangs the rifle from his good shoulder. He asks Sherlock about the handgun, and he promptly waves it in front of him. John frowns worriedly at that, but shakes out of his mind, there’re more important things at hand.

John starts walking in the same direction he was going before; south. Sherlock takes a few steps and hesitates.

“We’re going south.” John nods and takes another step. Sherlock just leans on his walking stick, making him look like a rather whimsical tree by the side of the road. “But the convoy where I was was moving north, I need to go north.”

“Sorry, kid, I was there before and trust me; it’s all Germans all the way.” Sherlock casts one last look back and follows John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lee-Enfield) the Lee-Enfield was the main rifle used by the British army around that time.
> 
> And [this](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luger_P08_pistol) would be a Luger.
> 
> Also, the yellowish powder and the tablets are sulpha, an antibiotic, you can find more information about it on this awesome site: [History of WWII Medicine](http://www.mtaofnj.org/content/WWII%20Combat%20Medic%20-%20Dave%20Steinert/wwii.htm#The%20Discovery%20of%20Sulfanilamide).


	2. You Look Twelve

The first thing they do, as soon as they get a chance, is leaving the path. They’re walking through fields of wheat, which is excellent for cover, but murder on their collective limping legs. After a couple of hours, John decides it’s time to rest. They stop under a huge oak tree that’s spilling its branches over the division of two fields. A wall of shrubs blocks their vision from _and_ to the road.

The walk there had been silent, punctuated by Sherlock’s and John’s whizzes of pain and the occasional swear word against protruding roots and rocks. The moon is high on the sky and it’s getting colder by the minute. John’s hands are stiff around the strap of his rifle, his fingers numb in the dark of the night.

Sherlock is beat; he can’t control his breathing anymore, so every time he’s short on breath, a stab of pain reminds him of his very broken ribs, yes, that’s plural, it very much _feels_ like a plural. At least his fever seems to have come down a bit. He sits on the nearest branch and welcomes the relief. Who could’ve known, a month ago, that he would be sitting on a tree branch 341 kilometres away from home, playing his part on the Great War, the sequel? Not him, he wouldn’t have known, he couldn’t have. A month ago he was about to get kicked out of school. A month ago he had been sitting at the dean’s office trying to explain why beating a corpse with a ridding crop was not to be considered a profanation of the body, nor an offense against god. _Who cared about god anyway?!_ Not him, that’s for sure! Then again, four weeks ago he hadn’t been in this predicament, a month ago, he didn’t need a god, and now… now he wished he could believe in a god, any god, any deity that might hear his plea, some sort of anchor to this world through the faith and certainty that comes from believing in something greater than life. He sighed rather audibly at that. _Sherlock everything-else-is-transport Holmes_ sighing at his impending doom; he’s blaming this one on the fever, the pain and -of course, who else-, Mycroft.

“Boy, you look gloom!” It’s John’s voice that cuts through the haze of his self-pity. Sherlock looks up straight into his eyes, sending shivers down John’s back. “How’s the pain?”

“Bearable”, John gives him one look and scoffs.

“Liar. From one to ten; ten being the worst pain you could possibly imagine…”

“Seven”. Sherlock seems to barely give this a thought.

“OK, I was saving this for later,” he moves his hand to his jacket’s front pocket, and takes a small leather pouch out, “but it’s seems like _now_ is in fact _later_.” He opens the pouch to reveal two small syrettes.

“Jesus, what did you find in there, an entire truck of medical supplies?”

“Not exactly, I just rummaged through everyone’s personal first aid kit. One of them was a doctor, so... you know what this is?”. He holds the syrette between his thumb and index finger.

“Yes, of course, morphine.”

“Right. OK, mate, I won’t give you the complete dose, this is only to take the edge off, what with you hitting your head and all,” he takes the plastic cap off and then pulls the loop pin, breaking the seal, “alright, shirts up.” Sherlock does as told and pulls his shirt to reveal a small patch of white skin. John inserts the needle under the skin of his abdomen at a shallow angle and squeezes. Like he said before, he doesn’t push all the liquid in, just about half. He takes the needle out and puts the plastic hood on it again, leaving it to a side for the moment. He then rubs his thumb on Sherlock’s belly. Sherlock first stiffens under the touch and then gradually starts to consciously unclench his muscles until he’s in what could easily pass as a relaxed stance.

“John, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, sure, just promise me you won’t faint or anything, I can’t let you fall asleep just yet.” He’s putting what’s left of the morphine back into the leather pouch, and the pouch back into his front pocket.

“You weren’t in the same convoy I was. Your uniform is ragged and very well worn, you have an injury on your left shoulder, yet, you inject me with morphine, but not yourself. Your wound is old, but not that old, so what? What are you not telling me? I’m thinking you were detained or imprisoned before, but I have yet to be informed of the circumstances.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Yet, when I introduced myself to you, you didn’t even bat an eyelash, you knew who I was,” John nods twice and looks to the ground. “So the obvious question right now is: who are you?”

“I’m a soldier, an army doctor. Nothing else.” Sherlock arches an eyebrow, clearly not buying the whole _I’m nothing but an army doctor_ façade. “Yes, of course you don’t believe me. Here it is; I was posted with the 11th like two weeks before you arrived and I was in charge of the medical area. Then we get word that his great super genius is coming to help develop a plan to take over the north and one week later I’m given orders to take part on the convoy that’ll move him, _you_. So far so good, then, we are on a reconnaissance mission when everything goes tits up and me and some buddies get captured by the krauts, this is like six days ago. They takes us, rough us up for information, and then everything goes pear-shaped again when some yanks bomb the hell out of the base, so they move us, I escape, my mates don’t, end of story.”

“Hardly. How’s the shoulder?”. John frowns at that.

“Fine.”

“Good, ‘cause we need to keep walking.” John agrees by picking up his bag of goods and strapping it over his shoulder along with the rifle. “According to my calculations if we keep to the road for another eight kilometres and then go west, we should enter friendly territory and eventually find the 3rd. Or the beach.”

“What, you planning on getting a sun-tan?” Sherlock actually stops to look at John’s face.

“Not particularly, no.” He answers slowly, like threading the water, as if not sure of what he’s actually answering.

“That was a joke.”

“Oh. Right. Impossible to get a tan at night.” John suppresses a laugh and in turn, a huge grin spreads over his face.

“You sure you’re genius?” Sherlock doesn’t dignify that with an answer, instead, he pulls his scarf from his back pocket and wraps it tightly around his neck.

John looks at the scarf and suddenly a thought comes to mind. How did this posh kid (‘cause that’s what he is, merely a kid), got himself tangled with this. What could possibly go over that head of his to making him such a pivotal figure to the battle?

“You’re staring.”

“I’m sorry.” John’s head snaps back to looking ahead of the field.

“You have questions. Go ahead it’s only natural.” John gives him a side glance. A dog barks in the distance.

“How old are you?”

“Seriously? I pull out a scarf that probably costs more than what you earn on any given month, and your question is ‘ _how old are you_ ’? _How_ old do you think I am?”

“Considering how bratty you’re being right now, I’d think twelve.”

Sherlock laughs and immediately after he grabs his ribs and takes quick, short, shallow breaths.

“Jesus, are you alright? Did you jolt something?” John puts the bag on the ground and helps Sherlock keep his standing position with his good arm. Sherlock looks down to him and smiles at the same time he breathes through his teeth. “What? Why are you smiling?”

“I’m waiting for you to ask if it hurts.” John half closes his eyes, not really following him on this one. There’s a three second silence, and when Sherlock recovers enough “so I can tell you it only hurts when I laugh.”

 _Cheeky bastard_ , he thinks, and smiles back. At least maintaining good spirits has proven to be beneficial in situations like these, not that he has found himself in such conditions many times before.

“I’m 22 by the way.”

“Alright, but I maintain that you look twelve.”

Both smiling, they restart their way, dodging rocks and other assorted obstacles as best as possible, aided only by the light of the moon and their tired senses.

After walking for approximately two more hours, they take refuge on a small cave on the side of a hill. To say it’s a small space for two grown men is an understatement, especially for Sherlock who has to duck and bend at odd angles to not hit his head every so often.

“’I’ll take first watch and I’ll wake you up in two hours or so.” Sherlock offers.

“You sure you don’t want to rest? We have a great walk ahead and your knee...”

“Bump to the head remember?”, he points to his forehead, “can’t sleep for a solid ten hours or...”

“... you might not wake up, I know. How’s the morphine working for you?”

“As if nonexistent.”

“What?! But even at half-dose, it sure _is_ a strong dose! Give me a number.”

“Six.”John hisses in response.

“Sorry, mate, I can’t give you more...”, he looks apologetic and frazzled. _Interesting_ , Sherlock thinks, and stores it to mull on it later.

“Not a problem, it’s not as if I can enjoy the buzz anyway. Go to sleep, I’ll keep watch, if anything happens I’ll wake you.” John nods and stretches as far as the confined space will let him, falling asleep almost immediately.

He dreams, or not exactly; he remembers in his dreams, and then he loses control and everything starts to blur in itself. He was eleven, it was his birthday, his mother and father had been arguing in soft hushes in the kitchen, his sister had stomped downstairs, taken one look at the situation and bolted right through the front door. His guests hadn’t arrived yet, but he knew, deep in his soul, this birthday was going to stink. Then, with the speed of light, it’s cake-time and everybody is laughing or singing along, he blows the candles and his mother and grandmother start hugging and kissing him, but they won’t let go, and he needs air, pronto, he’s starting to suffocate. His childhood memories jump forward and he sees himself at school, being kicked on the gut by a classmate, his sister leaving the house for good, his first kiss, which had totally grossed him out, and then, suddenly, his training, his combat boots at the end of the bed. Then, an injured faceless soldier on the ground, his blood rushing out of his neck, mixing with the dirt, making a brownish slush. He needs to breath, he’s gasping, but he can’t get enough air inside and...

He wakes with a startle to piercing blue eyes that are staring him right back. The shock is enough to prevent the shout in his throat from coming out. Sherlock takes his hand from John’s mouth and keeps on staring at him. John’s sweating and he’s acutely aware of it, he’s about to say something, but Sherlock puts his finger to his lips and shushes him. _Something’s wrong_. He sharpens his ear and listens, and there, on the background there’s indistinct chatter. John looks up at Sherlock, who mouths “Germans” for him. Then, he hands him the rifle.

Their quarters are a bit changed from before. The entrance is covered with what looks like foliage, and little specks of light filter in. It must be very sunny outside. The voices are coming closer and it becomes pretty obvious they’re of German origin; John prays they don’t find them as Sherlock mentally goes over what he did outside and the odds of them finding him; albeit he doesn’t have the clarity of mind to think about what would happen after they find them. The voices are a few meters away, six metres, give or take. One set of steps coming closer. John’s mind mantra rises to a deafening volume inside his head and Sherlock’s odds of survival are quickly reaching zero. There’s the distinct sound of a zip being opened and then the wet trickle of liquid against dirt. A fraction of a second later, the well known smell of piss reaches their nostrils. One of the farther voices says something loud and a few others laugh. The pissing-soldier zips up and trots back to where he came from, in a few minutes the roar of engines driving away allows them to remember how to breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morphine syrettes on [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syrette) and [WW2 US Medical Research Centre](http://med-dept.com/morphine.php).


	3. I'm Dealing with a Child

As the trucks drive away, both men slowly release their breaths, John turns to say something to Sherlock and the first thing he notices is his hand grabbing Sherlock by the lapel of his coat; it had drifted there during the pissing-soldier scare and, even more surprisingly to him, Sherlock’s hand is resting on top of his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. John gets a sinking feeling and his stomach is suddenly full of rocks. He whispers his apologies, dazed under the circumstances.

“Why?” Was Sherlock’s answer. John feels himself blush and looks away. “Oh, I see.” Sherlock was staring down now, looking a bit lost himself.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“My hand?”

“Yes, of course”. He lets go.

Both men take a few moments to collect themselves, arranging their uniforms and gathering their things. They needed to get out of there before another detachment of troops happened to wander by to relieve themselves. Plus, under the light of day, the walls of the cave seemed even more constricting and suffocating than before.

John kicked the foliage and dragged himself outside. His shoulder was killing him, sending stabs of pain down his arm and up his neck. He stretches as far as his body will let him and pats his front pocket to make sure the pouch’s still there, except it isn’t. He turns around to see if he had dropped it, when he takes on the sight of Sherlock, struggling to pass his giraffe-like figure through the entrance of the cave. _Jesus, how the hell did he manage to get_ in _in the first place?_.

“Need any help?”

“No, thanks, I can manage.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I managed to get in and out of this bloody hole all night, didn’t I?”, he looked like a stubborn five year old determined to climb into his father’s desk chair, which was both endearing and disturbing, “and where is that _damned thing_ you got me?!”. Exasperation seeping through his voice.

John thinks Sherlock’s referring to the cane, so he tries his best to look past him, into the cave and search the ground with his eyes, it should be easy to find, considering the shiny metal parts. He walks towards him and steps into something. Of course it’s the walking stick. He picks it up and hands it to him.

Sherlock stares at it for a second and then grabs it harshly from his hand, putting it on his right side and leaning his entire body weight into it, finally being able to stand without torturing his ribs any further. He huffs twice during the process and John winces internally, that must’ve hurt a lot. And the thought of it brings him back to his missing pouch.

“Sherlock, did you see my leather pouch, the one where I have the syrettes?”, before he can even finish his question, Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, briefly hesitating before handing it to him. A smile reaches John’s lips, but it’s not really a good once, or a nice one for that matter. A bit of tongue sticks out as he tries to understand. “I’m sorry; did you take this out of my pocket when I was sleeping?”

Sherlock hasn’t moved from his spot, just outside the cave, almost on top of the foliage cover. He nods, once.

“Any particular reason?” Sherlock looks up and that immediately tells John more than he wanted to know. He’s angry, like Sherlock has disappointed him somehow. “Well no wonder the morphine didn’t even tickle you last night. You do many drugs, back home?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer and shifts on his feet (and cane).

“Is that why they wanted a doctor with you at all times? God, how _did_ you end up in here anyway? Surely someone like _you_ didn’t offer”. John sidesteps him and retrieves his bag. “Happen to take anything from here, too? Mmm?” Sherlock’s no longer looking at him; he’s looking past him, through him, into the distance. It’s not the first time he’s heard this song, that much is clear, and yet... “here, lean on the hill, I need to redress your bandages.” After crossing the bag over his chest, he opens the pouch to find the syrettes exactly as he left them; he opens the unused one, breaks the seal and motions Sherlock for him to lift his shirt sleeve. Surely he finds the old marks of needles in there, but he purposefully ignores them (or at least tells himself to do so). He finds a vein and just as he’s about to inject Sherlock, the aforementioned decides to talk.

“Shouldn’t you keep this one for yourself? I mean, you did get shot in the shoulder, and even though I’m sure you gave excellent and accurate instructions to your mates on how to take the bullet out -under the circumstances, I mean- I sincerely doubt they did half a decent job.” John hesitates, just a fraction of a second, and then plunges the needle in. Sherlock winces almost imperceptibly, _almost_.

“As much as I admire your attempt at altruism, you’re my responsibility, whether you like it or not. You’re a civilian, not only that, but an asset to the army. It’s my _duty_ to take you back to safety.” Sherlock swallowed audibly and retrieved his arm from John’s grasp. “Now, I need you to take that off, so I can change the bandages.”

They go through this awkward task of trying not to mind the other’s sighs of exasperation and pain. John opens a paper packet and sprinkles the yellowish powder on top of Sherlock’s injuries and then wraps him again on the support bandages, after he’s done, he instructs Sherlock to take three deep breaths and coaches him through it (not that he really wants to, but it’s his job, and he takes pride on a job well done).

He can tell the morphine is already working. Sherlock has that certain glaze in his eyes, and his movements are slower now. He also looks stupidly content, which reminds him way too much of the last time he saw his sister, and that’s one of the many things he doesn’t want to dwell on. So he continues working on the head injury which has been healing just fine and no longer needs a dressing. It’s got a nice bruise all around it, though, and eventually the black and blue from the eyebrow is going to move below and give him quite a shiner on the right eye. He expects that will actually annoy the hell out of Sherlock, he almost wishes so.

When he’s done with him, he takes care of himself, carefully stripping the shoulder bandage away; caked blood tearing away skin, his eyes filling with tears (which he blinks away in an effort to concentrate on the task at hand). Once the bandage is out, the real extent of the damage becomes clear. There’s a large bruise that goes down his arm and torso, and up his neck, all revolving around a red angry blotch of poorly stitched skin. It was a through and through. A small calibre by the looks of it, but not less painful because of it. The real torture probably was having to stay awake during the entire procedure, as to give proper instructions for the stitching of important tissues and vessels.

 _A through-and-through; not like he had thought at first, but it does signify a cleaner wound (there’s always something), however John will be lucky if he only ends up losing his arm. It’s bound to get infected and eventually gangrened, if only they could speed up their journey… but there’s no sense in even thinking about it, he has a busted knee and John has a… well he’s not sure what’s wrong with his leg yet, sometimes it’s even as if he’s forgotten all about it, and then, the limping’s back_. He’s quite aware that he’s staring and mapping every centimetre of John’s body, but he can’t help it, he can practically make out where the fists connected with his stomach, and where a boot bruised the back, if he were closer he could also tell the size. From this distance he can, however, tell what came first and what came later. First he got shot, then he got “roughed up” (as John’s so mildly put it) and then, kicked some more. Sherlock had only been vaguely aware of John’s experience before they met (as in, he vaguely acknowledges that knowing wherever John was before doesn’t really help or worsen the dilemma they’re in now), but he’s seen enough of it. He fidgets with his torso bandages, which suddenly feel too tight to breathe properly.

When John finishes cleaning and redressing his wound, giving it the same sulphanilamide treatment he gave to Sherlock, he’s presented with an image of the latter fidgeting with his bandages and wheezing as the weight of his upper body collapses into the broken ribs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I’m dealing with a child,” he mutters as he steps closer. He sorts Sherlock’s bandages (probably a little more forcefully than strictly necessary) and just as he’s finishing they can hear faint giggling to their backs, just over the hill.

 _Giggling?_. Sherlock and John stare at each other, confusion getting the best of them.

“ _Tais-toi!_ ”, it’s a child’s voice. John can easily recognise it as a girl’s admonishing someone else, but he’s even more surprised when Sherlock perks up and answers in French. What he says exactly, is forever lost in his brain, but he knows enough words to make out the general message; that roughly being “who’s there”.

“Are you insane? You don’t know who’s on the other side?” John whispers.

“Oh please, it’s only children, don’t be so dramatic”, Sherlock answers as he goes around the hill, looking for a place he can climb without too much trouble

“Dramatic? Oh, gee, I keep forgetting we’re only stranded behind enemy lines”, there’s no use in saying this, though, as Sherlock is already climbing up the slope, leaving John behind to pick up after him.

Sherlock’s shirt’s still open from when John fixed (for a second time) his bandages. He plants his foot on the slope and pushes up with the help of the cane, his shirt tails gingerly fluffing at his sides.

His pain level has greatly subdued and his mood seems to be improving by the minute. On the other side of the hill there’s a house, and a house where there’s children it’s bound to have food.

John gathers their things the best he can and follows. By the time he climbs up the slope, Sherlock’s already talking to both children (quite animatedly); he must be telling a joke, because both kids are laughing.

The girl’s wearing a flowery dress, with a heavy red coat on top. She looks about seven and laughs with a hand half-covering her mouth. Her hair is braided and, holding the braids, two silky, red strings of fabric. The boy, her brother by the looks of it, looks around five and is laughing too. When they see John appear, they both stiffen a bit and start to back out, their eyes moving from Sherlock to John and back again.

Sherlock puts himself between John and the children and gestures to himself and then to John. He can only make out one word in there, as Sherlock is talking significantly faster now: “English”.

“John, would you mind to lower your rifle?”

 _Jesus, of course children get scared around these things, what has he thinking!_

He lowers it and puts it over his shoulder. He’s about to say something when a scream cuts through the conversation and the boy yells “ _Maman!_ ” and makes a run for it, the girl looks stunned and rooted to the ground, tears lurking just over the edge of her eyes.

The house is something like thirty or forty metres away, the woman who had screamed before is running towards them, and sure enough, there’s a man running just after her. He’s got a gun.

“Tell her to go, tell her to go to her parents.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tais-toi!_ is french for "Shut up".


	4. You Have Nightmares

John’s heart beat rises up as soon as he sees the gleam of that fire weapon. Sherlock only has to tell the girl once and she bolts, tears racing down her cheeks. The woman hugs tightly both of her children, running her hands over them a few times, physically checking they’re alright. The man, who’s promptly pointing his gun at John –who, in turn, has his rifle (quite efficiently) aimed at the ground-, is asking something. To which Sherlock answers “ _non, nous sommes Anglais_ ”, the man seems to relax a bit at that, but not by much.

The man shifts his look from Sherlock to John. “We don’t want trouble, get away.” He says in a good enough English.

“Yes…”, John begins, but Sherlock cuts him off.

“Of course we will, as soon as you give us some food for the road, we’ll wait here.”

John feels his eyes bulge out and can’t really believe what he just heard. The man can’t quite believe it either, going by the murderous look he’s sending Sherlock (although, unlike John, who has the urgent need to apologise profusely, he seems more annoyed than anything). Without lowering his gun, he shouts to her wife, who runs back into the house with both her children.

After a full minute, she comes back with a simple canvas bag, something you would use to put your shopping in. She hands it to her husband and quickly backs away. The man throws it in front of John and finally lowers his gun. John takes a big gulp of air and bends to pick it up.

“There, go now, you can get us all killed.”

“Thank you”, John says. Sherlock merely nods into the man’s direction.

Immediately after, they both walk opposite of the house, the man following them with his eyes until they’re well lost into the distance, behind a small cluster of trees.

They walk in silence. John trying to assimilate what just happened, Sherlock lost in thought. After they find some cover, they settle down. Walking in the middle of the day is far more dangerous than walking by night, especially if they can’t outrun the enemy. John wants to find some allies soon; this nut-job he’s decided to rescue on the side of the road is driving him crazy! Especially now, that he’s rummaging through the bag with glee on his eyes. This guy is completely off his rocker.

“Don’t you feel bad about it?”

“About?” He’s found a bottle of milk and is working on getting it open.

“Umm, scaring the lights out of that poor woman and her family.”

“Ah, that, well. Feeling bad, John, even though morally praise worthy, is highly unpractical. Especially given our circumstances.”

“That’s a ‘no’ then.”

“Hmm, you look upset.”

“That’s very good; yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“Because you just worked that poor man and his family; they were afraid and you didn’t care.”

“So what? I’ve disappointed you? Please, don’t make people into heroes, they don’t exist, and if they did I wouldn’t be one of them.”

“Yes, obviously!”

“Well you don’t have to eat it then, if it makes you feel better.” Sherlock’s done trying to open the bottle and is now resorting to his teeth as means to breaking the seal.

“Oh, for _fffffff_....”, John grabs the bottle from his hand and opens it in one swift motion, handing it right back. Sherlock stares at it, the smirk he had been sporting before, slowly disappearing. “What now?”

There’s lightning above and then the ear shattering noise of something hitting the ground. That was close. Too close. The sound of distant gun fire fills the silence. Not lighting then, but something else entirely. John’s still holding the bottle for Sherlock, but looking up, to the sky, trying to pinpoint where the battle was this time.

He couldn’t.

There’s a formation of planes getting closer now, but he can’t find them in the sky to know on whose side they are. Sherlock takes the bottle from John, startling him back to earth.

“It’s 88s John, relax, they’re not dropping their bombs here. They’re going west; they’re most probably after the 82nd, which in turn must be bombing another base close by.”

“Then I suppose we’re going to be here for a while.”

The 88s are impressive, it’s hard for John to actually think that and not reproach himself, but it’s true. Nine thousand kilograms of pure steel roaming the skies: versatile, powerful and glorious. It’s a secret of his, but if he’s going to die in here, at war, he wishes it’s by the deathly reach of an 88. Quick, almost painless and kind of poetic; simply perfect.

Sure enough their bombs hit their intended targets eventually, or at least close enough, sending trembles through the ground beneath his feet. Those 88s are pounding the earth, fabricating small earthquakes that travel through his body and reach the top of his head with a slight shiver. _God_ , his shoulder hurts, his leg hurts, his head soars in pain, his entire body’s protesting. And on top of that, he’s in the middle of _Fuck Me, France_ with a guy that can barely register other people’s feelings and doesn’t bat an eye at being held at gunpoint. He looks at him, at Sherlock, sitting at the bottom of a three, lightly snoring. The half-empty bottle still in his hand. Who was this guy anyway?

It’s been almost thirty minutes since the air raid began. The bombing is more spread out now, which is dangerous, and every now and then he can hear the faint echoes of machine guns up in the sky. The wind is blowing east, bringing them the smell and taste of powder. It’s dazzling and oddly exciting at the same time, as if it’s somehow leading to a slow, steady release of adrenaline to his blood stream. Sherlock’s been nodding on and off for a while now, the full effect of the morphine finally hitting him. _Thank god_ , he definitely needed some time for himself. Sherlock is a very interesting person, clearly, and as much as he would deny it if asked directly, he’s fascinated by him, he’s like no one he’s met before, but the intensity of his character burns like the sun and he’s afraid he might become the moth of this metaphor. Sherlock stirs in his semi-conscious sleep and John feels a bit sorry he blew up on the guy. The hunger, pain and fatigue are definitely getting to him. There’s nothing he can do about the pain right now, but the fatigue and hunger he can work on.

He’s so hungry he’s pretty sure he could eat dirt right now, but thanks to Sherlock here, he doesn’t have to. He still feels bad, though, but that doesn’t stop him from being hungry, nor satisfied after he’s devoured half the bread and drank what was left of the milk. There’s another plane formation going right over their heads and he looks up, just in case he can make out the shapes. His mind starts to wander again, this time it leads him back to the smelly cell he and his pals had been in, his shoulder throbbing, tears barely held back, the maximum dosage of morphine in his system, the pain still too raw to be fully subdued by the medicine. Every now and then he blinks tears back. Time is punctuated by the coming and going of their custodians, dragging each one of them out, but never coming back. He’s the last one to leave the room, the krauts left him last so he could recover enough to talk. By the time he’s interrogated, it doesn’t take him much to start spilling the beans. It’s all useless information anyway, he knows nothing of importance, all of his information is outdated, but he’ll do anything to stay away from the pain.

After an hour or two of rattling off positions and past operations, they bring him cigarettes, and he’s too afraid of the pain that might come to say he doesn’t smoke. He takes a long draw of his fag and coughs rather spectacularly, smoke coming out from his nostrils and mouth in dense clouds. His interrogators laugh a sincere laugh and comment amongst each other. They’re still laughing when a captain enters the room. They salute and straighten in front of their leader. The captain tells them something, spares one look at John and leaves. All the soldiers put their cigarettes out and John just _knows_ something’s coming.

He’s thrown to the ground, hands on his back and held in there by a heavy foot clad in leather. They cuff him with something that scrapes his wrists, which is a nice distraction from the throbbing pain that irradiates from his shoulder, and a fourth soldier puts a black bag over his head. They take him from under his arms and by the fabric of his jacket and put him on his feet. He’s lead outside by two soldiers that don’t exchange a word the entire walk, they’re practically carrying him, their strides too long and fast; he can barely keep up. Outside there’s a flurry of movement and anticipation.

He can tell they’re outside because of the chill. It must be the middle of the night since the breeze is so cold it actually helps him with the swelling of his shoulder. His mind’s foggy, the morphine clouding the full extent of his situation. A part of him is thinking he should put on a warmer jacket before his mother scolds him about it, and another, more distant, blurrier part, is laughing it’s arse off at the thought of him being more afraid of a reproaching mother, than the entire regiment of Germans around him that will, most certainly, milk him for information until they realise he’s only feeding them rubbish (once that happens, he’s toast).

They put him on the back of a truck at the same time the bombs begin to drop, about two kilometres away by the sound of it. He flails and fights his restraints. The fact that no one’s kicking him on the chest for him to stay still, tells him he’s alone. It’s a _chance_ , the only chance he’ll get, so he takes it. After passing his tied hands under his feet, he takes out the hood, and there, right in front of him, staring him with such intensity it actually hurts, a pair of the most intriguing blue eyes he’s ever seen.

There’s a hand on his chest, pushing him back to the ground. He tries to fight it, but he’s still too disoriented to inflict any real damage. After resisting for a couple of seconds, reality catches up with him and he’s left panting and embarrassed under the clinical stare of one Sherlock Holmes.

There’s a whole war going on in the outskirts of the town, thankfully it’s still far enough to leave them in a relatively safe position.

“You have nightmares.” Sherlock declares, triumphant, a previously unseen –for John– delight on his eyes.

“Yes, bravo, it takes a genius to notice”. He deadpans.

“Yes, I understand it’s quite obvious, I was just pointing it because it’s interesting.”

“Really?” _Is he actually having this conversation? Shouldn’t his survival training be kicking in by now? Shouldn’t they be on the move? Take advantage of the distraction and get the hell away from there? Find cover? Find the 82nd, the 11th, hell even the French resistance would do by now!_

“Yes.”

“Why?” He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear it, but saying no to him seems impossible at the moment. He’s still too lost in his memories, trying to figure out the future, _if_ there is a future for him, for _them_.

“Because you also have a limp that goes away.” Sherlock’s absolutely glowing when he says this, there’s a determination in his voice that entices John and scares him to the core. _Don’t be a moth, John, don’t go into the light, fight it, John, fight it._

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, John, you must’ve noticed, even someone of no extraordinary intelligence like you…”

“To the point, please.”

“I’m getting there! Your limp goes _away_. It shouldn’t but it does. It’s only when you become aware of yourself that you limp…”

“Stop…” _No, not this, this he cannot bear…_

“… your gait is very pronounced, nevertheless, I have yet to hear you complain about it…”

“Stop…” _Of course he knows, he’s a doctor for Christ sake’s…_

“And now; nightmares… as a man of medicine, you _must’ve_ heard of this phenomenon from the great war, it’s called…”

“Sherlock, please, stop. Yes, I’ve heard of it, alright? Yes, I know, I don’t need you to spell it out for me. Just stop.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 88s refer to a type of german plane, the Junkers Ju 88. Go check them out on [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junkers_Ju_88#Specifications_Ju_88_A-4)


	5. He's Trying to Make Himself Lighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock apologises, sort of. John begins to understand what's the importance of Sherlock to the war. And they are close to the end of this journey. Too close perhaps.

They’re no longer in speaking terms. Well, John’s not in speaking terms right now, Sherlock’s been far too busy walking on a morphine-induced daze to even notice John’s mad. Sherlock has embarrassed John, but he has yet to realise about it.

They’re resting on a woody area with a narrow river that crosses it in the direction they’re going. They’ve taken the opportunity to fill their canteen and refresh themselves.

John hands another sulpha tablet to Sherlock and he silently takes it and swallows it dry, earning him a canteen to the chest and a murderous look.

“Don’t be a buzz-kill”, Sherlock says, and John suppresses the urgency to swat him over the head with his own cane. (It would greatly delay their journey if he did).

They have about four hours ‘til night, when they’ll start walking again under the safety of darkness. If they make good time, they’ll be on friendly territory by dawn, saving these memories in the anecdotes-to-tell-at-a-bar section of their minds. If everything goes well, that is. _Please, god, don’t let me die in this hell-hole_. John silently prays.

He looks up to Sherlock, who’s idly sitting on a rock by the river, pushing small pebbles into it with the tip of his cane. He’s been sitting there for half an hour at the very least, his mind light-years away, and even though John appreciates the lack of the _I’m better than thou_ attitude every five minutes, he’s starting to get worried. His anger subdued as soon as a long list of opiates’ side effects starts to rattle around his head. Nausea being the most prominent and annoying so far, which is –coincidentally- the main reason he’s avoiding the stuff like the plague. He’ll give it another hour before _really_ getting worried. If his timings are correct, Sherlock should be riding the highest point of the effects right now. He certainly looks the part.

Sherlock’s sudden intake of air startles him back. He looks like he’s about to talk, but then he shuts his mouth and looks the other way. John frowns at that, but doesn’t push, thinking about talking with him again makes him rather uneasy, and so he’ll avoid it if he can.

The problem with Sherlock is that he can’t make his head quiet. There’s usually a lot of noise and movement up there, but today, and for the past week, it feels like a roaring steam engine has taken residence in there. The thoughts keep rushing back, they haunt him. Being suspended from university, Mycroft taking him in into his office, mother falling ill, making the decision to come here. He just can’t stop playing memories in his head. He can’t shake his brother’s expression of utter regret, of actual emotional pain at the thought of having his baby brother mixed up in something as violent as the battle field. But what else could they do? The day after his suspension his mother visits him in his dorm room. They’ve given him ‘til the end of the week to clear the premises and he’s mostly stalling, except for the part where he’s carefully covering his tracks to make sure they don’t get into him whilst he’s gone, he´s already hanging in the balance with a suspension, making it into a expulsion should be a fairly simple affair if they find out his small “delivering” business on the side. He’s not there to make their jobs _simple_ , that’s for sure! First he goes franticly about his room getting rid of evidence, and when he’s done dashing about, he opens the door to rush into the chemistry lab and get rid of the evidence in there as well. And there she is, casually leaning on the door jamb to the common room. The shame hits him so hard he feels faint. There’s an eerie heat coming up from the sole of his shoes, and he’s not sure if that’s the ignominy talking or the urge to sprint and leave it all behind.

“What are you doing here? You know you’re not supposed to leave the house.” He doesn’t mean to come off so harsh, and immediately regrets his poor choice of words.

“I came to see you, Sherlock, what else. Before you decide to disappear on us again, perhaps, talk some sense into you?”

“But, mum...”

“It’s OK, sweetheart, I understand. You’ve always been different, especial. I just hate to see you waste your life away.”

There’s a rush of blood to his head and everything heightens. The sound of the blood in his ears almost deafening. He feels like a small child again, in desperate need of comfort after being scolded by his father over a broken window.

The memory it’s too dense and heavy with emotional responses and _feelings_ to dwell on it again. He just can’t think about it anymore, which is why he surprises himself when he catches himself saying: “She’s sick you know” he says it to no one in particular, although John seems like the only possible recipient in there, obviously.

John doesn’t say anything back, he’s not quite sure what’s going on, but he can sense the vulnerability on the other man’s voice so he doesn’t want to interrupt.

Sherlock pushes another pebble forward and stops just as it’s about to fall into the river. “So we talked, my brother and I, we decided I should come and he should stay home.” One small push and the pebble rolls into water. “Actually, she might be dead already, I don’t really know. No thanks to the postal service in here, anyway.”

The sounds of nature fill the silence as it stretches for a couple of seconds. Truck-engine noises in the distance, the outskirts of town brimming with activity. Must be the Germans moving again.

John knows he shouldn’t ask, but his curiosity has spiked, still, he bites his tongue and sets himself into listening mode. Sherlock picks another pebble and presses it to the ground with the tip of his cane. He looks at John and bitter laughter rises to his lips. He then taps twice against the pebble and chucks it into the water.

“Because I’m expendable.” He finally says, and goes back to playing with his cane, tapping it against the ground.

 _How on earth did they get into this conversation to begin with?_

“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but, _why_ are you telling me all this?”

Sherlock was momentarily taken aback by the question, slowing the tap-tap-tap of his cane.

“I…” for a moment there it seems Sherlock’s going to continue talking about it, whatever _it_ was, but then, in a fraction of a second, something clicks and flickers inside, and his face assumes the stony mask of arrogance he’s perfected over time. As he talks, he looks past John and into the trees far behind. “We’re even now. I know something, you know something. Of personal importance, I mean. We’re even.”

John licks his lower lip and bits into it. _Even_ , now that’s something.

“Well, since we are in the ‘of personal importance area’, why _are_ you here? I don’t mean your work, I mean why come at all.”

“My brother was needed, but he was otherwise engaged. I came instead.” Sherlock answers automatically.

“Your brother? You mean there’s _another_ one like you?”

“Of course there isn’t another one like me! Even if I had an identical twin, we wouldn’t be alike.” John’s about to give the best exasperated sigh of his repertoire, when he notices it; Sherlock’s smiling. Not a proper smile, but what he thinks passes as a smile for him. He half grins in return too. He has absolutely no idea about what just happened, but oddly enough, it felt a lot like bonding.

~~~

As soon as the sun begins to set they start arranging their things. John redresses their injuries one last time and coaches Sherlock through a series of deep breaths. His pain is very obvious and cuts deep in his face. Sherlock’s morphine’s wearing off, which is bad; they still have another four kilometres (give or take a couple) to walk and they need to get pass the enemy front. It’s going to be hard enough without adding the shooting pain and the inability to take a deep breath into the mix. _Shut it, Watson, that’s quitter talk._ He refocuses on kneeling by the river and filling up their canteen.

Sherlock’s leaning against a tree, waiting for John. He’s idly playing with the buttons of his coat. When John comes back he stands in front of Sherlock and looks at him in the eye.

“You ready?”

“Ready when you are.”

“How’s the pain?”

“You know, I could ask you the same question.”

“Yeah, I don’t have a couple of broken ribs, so, I’m OK. As long as I don’t have to aim higher than my shoulder…”, he mutters the last part and Sherlock looks to the ground trying to hide a smirk. He then disguises the movement by turning up the collar of his coat and wrapping his neck with his scarf.

“Don’t worry, John, I don’t think I can aim much higher than my shoulder either, but I’m not worried.” John actually laughs at that, a deep rumble that ends as his eyes wrinkle on the sides. Sherlock pushes off the tree and walks past John, “yeah, I’m not worried, _at all_.”

They’ve got another forty five minutes of light, tops.

When they talked about their escape route, they had decided to follow the river as far as the cover of the forest would allow, which, with some luck, would be to the heart of wherever the 11th and 82nd are. So they’re doing exactly that now. John’s leg is getting weird again, not to mention the dull throb of his shoulder is making him irritable, at best. He feels hot for no reason in particular and he just keeps telling himself it must be the exhaustion playing havoc on his body, as another different part of him unsuccessfully tries to silence the doctor within that just keeps cycling back to infection and septicaemia.

He’s already snapped twice at his medical bag out of pure annoyance and once at the rifle for not staying where he put it. Even though he understands it’s futile and downright stupid because they’re inanimate objects and definitely not at fault for his banged up shoulder, it does make him feel a bit better. When his rifle slips out of his grasp again, Sherlock intervenes before a long string of swearwords come out of John’s mouth.

“So, what to do you plan to do when you get home?”

John appreciates the effort to distract him, so he makes an effort too.

“Umm, not sure yet, go back to London, that’s for sure. Don’t know what after that, though. And you? You got a lady waiting for you at home?”

“No, not really my area.”

“Oh. So, you, ummm, have a job or something?” It’s not so much that he’s ignoring the quite dubious answer and downright awkward moment, as he’s just trying to refocus the conversation onto something else, something he’s actually comfortable talking about.

“No, not really, I’m a student… well, I _was_ a student at Cambridge, before I got suspended. I don’t think they’ll be taking me back, though.”

“Umm, care to explain?” _Please don’t let it be something outrageous_.

“No, not particularly.”

 _Good_.

They’ve been walking for about an hour and a half. They haven’t spotted light or movement around, which is good, very good. Their odds of survival are reasonably optimistic so far. Sherlock sits over a fallen tree and John goes to sit next to him. The air is pleasantly warm and it’s soothes him. He takes the rucksack off and puts it on his lap, careful as to not spill its contents, he opens it and searches the tin box with the sulpha tablets by hand.

It’s a dark night, their only source of light the full moon above their heads that’s partially covered by clouds. That put together with the eerily warm temperature means it’s going to rain soon; hopefully after dawn.

He finally finds the tin and opens it, the last two tablets waiting for him. He swallows one and chases it down with a big gulp of water. Then, he hands the other one to Sherlock by gently swatting him on the chest with his fist, when Sherlock looks down to see what’s the matter, John’s open hand is waiting for him with the tablet in the middle of it. He hands him the canteen next. Sherlock drinks all that’s left of the water and licks his lip after he’s finished, making a smacking sound with his tongue. John’s so close to Sherlock right now he can actually see the little curls beginning to form at the nape of his neck, bending out, defiant of gravity. He has an urge to put his hand there, to make sure he’s real, that all of this is real, but he refrains and goes to collect more water instead.

“So, do _you_ have a girl waiting for you at home?” Sherlock asks as John’s getting back from the river.

“No. I’m on my own.”

“Don’t you have brothers?” Sherlock seems to stress that last word, but John deters from commenting on it.

“No, no brothers.” Sherlock cocks his head to a side and puts a hand to his face.

“Then who’s Harry?”

“ _Excuse me_?!”

“You heard me, who’s Harry? You were calling for him in your sleep when we stayed at the cave.”

That, he did not see coming. What he _is_ beginning to see is what kind of work Sherlock might be doing for the army, and he’s not sure what to think of it yet.

“Harry is short for Harriet, she’s my sister…”

“There’s always something…” Sherlock shakes his head and taps his cane against the ground. John can’t see his face from this distance, but he’s pretty sure he doing an eye-roll of sorts.

“So, how did you…?”

“Knew it had to be a sibling. Not usual to call one’s parents by name, and the context of your nightmare, from what I gathered, suggested family. If you have no idea what to do when you go back home, not even where you’ll stay, and there were no mentions of a son or cousins; sibling it’s all that’s left.”

“That’s… fantastic, not the trampling over my privacy bit, of course, but the rest? Quite extraordinary.”

John had found his way back to sitting next to Sherlock and he could see the satisfaction all over Sherlock’s features, a glaze on his eyes, very similar to the one he had sported after the second shot of morphine. At the thought, his hand instinctively goes to the upper left pocket of his jacket, to feel the leather pouch. He had completely forgotten there was still a good half-dose of morphine in there. He’ll save it for later, just in case.

“That’s not what people usually tell me.”

“No? Then what do they tell you?”

“Piss off”

“Ah, I might see that actually happening.”

Sherlock scoffs and looks the other way, amused. Something akin of anxiety bubbles up on his stomach and so John drinks more water to occupy himself, hoping to drown whatever feeling is beginning to form down there. Sherlock taps him on the leg with the cane and motions for the canteen. John passes the canteen and dries his mouth on his sleeve, exhaling as he scans the dark area in front of them. He’s still thirsty.

After resting for a while, they continue walking. Like a kilometre away from their last stop they catch sight of a campfire to their right, dangerously close to the only open space they can walk through past the camping. They quickly consult on it and decide to backtrack their steps a couple hundred metres up the river, to a narrow spot where they can cross without too much hassle. By the time they reach the crossing spot, a light drizzle has started.

They cross the river and start walking again. They should be close enough to the front lines now, they can sense the increase of movement around. The drizzle is starting to pick up, quickly becoming into rain, the drops soaking John’s collar, alleviating some of the heat in there.

They stop under a tree for both refuge and to orientate themselves. John takes the opportunity to remind Sherlock about the half-dose leftover of morphine.

“How’s your pain? No deflecting the question now, I need to know.”

“Seven.”

“I still have half a syrette in my pocket.”

“Don’t need it.”

“Yeah? Can you run then? If we have to, which, you know, we probably will, can you make a run for it?”

Sherlock’s quiet. And so is John for a while. Eventually the answer comes in the form of Sherlock shrugging off one of his coat sleeves and rolling his shirt to the elbow. John silently takes the syrette out and, finding a vein on Sherlock’s arm, inoculates him and pins the syrette on Sherlock’s lapel.

“In case you forget after we arrive, better be safe than sorry.”

They’re deviating from the river now, the place crawling with people they’re desperately trying to avoid.

A couple of hours later they find themselves at the edge of the forest. John goes ahead to explore. Beyond the forest, there’s a flat stretch of ground that’s populated by tall grass, a good hundred metres of it. The grass bends and quivers under the powerful strike of the wind and the rain. He can barely hear his thoughts as it is, even worse with the insistent tapping of droplets over his head. Right after the plain there’s people. He can make out a truck of supplies that’s probably serving as a HQ of sorts, and an old farm. He can also see people going in and out of the truck in yank uniform. He rushes back to tell the news to Sherlock.

“Right ahead, I can’t make out any specific marks, but it’s the yanks, all we have to do is cross the plain and we’re done.” Sherlock swallows and nods, once.

They’re on the edge of the forest, kneeling behind a tree, studying the path they’ll soon follow. The rain is viciously pounding the grass, fat drops of water colliding with the ground, creating thick mud in the process, making the terrain even more difficult to cross. John can hear his heart on his ears and he’s pretty sure Sherlock’s going through something very similar too.

Sherlock takes off his dripping wet coat, and whatever wasn’t soaked before, is drenched in pouring rain in under a minute now. He’s trying to make himself lighter in case they need to make a run for it. John rummages through his rucksack, that’s also drenched to the core, and produces a small blood-stained arm-band with a red cross on it. He puts it on and makes the sign of the cross over himself, finishing with a small peck to his thumb. And then takes a step front, still in his half kneeled position. He continues to walk like that until he’s well amongst the grass. Sherlock follows close behind.

Halfway through, the grass starts to make itself scarce and the terrain starts to elevate. To avoid misunderstandings he drops his rifle and prompts Sherlock to do the same with the Luger. They’re hiding behind a small knoll of dirt. Again, John takes the lead. He straightens his legs and gets up, slowly taking his arms above the head. His heartbeat is so fast it buzzes in his ears and neck. He looks back to Sherlock, who’s having difficulties standing up, and offers a hand. The hammering of the rain’s so hard and the rush of his blood so loud, he can’t hear anything past a few metres around. He _feels_ , rather than hears the shot.

Sherlock propels forward and coughs into John’s jacket. The wheezing sound that comes after, cutting through the clamour of nature like a surgery scalpel.

 _This can’t be happening._


	6. This is the One

Sherlock coughs desperately into John’s jacket, grabbing him by the sides with a distressed look on his eyes. John’s torn between screaming and holding onto Sherlock for dear life. A constant mantra on his mind _This can’t be happening_ playing louder than the rain itself. After the first few seconds of shock, his medical training kicks in and his hands quickly find the hole on Sherlock’s coat. It’s at the back, on the right, waist high. A dark stain already spreading through his clothes.

Sherlock’s completely out of it, his breathing coming in short quick gasps. Water getting everywhere, his scarf dripping, his hair plastered to his forehead and neck; a few rebel curls standing against the weight of the rain and the gravity of the situation. He’s muttering something, but John can’t hear him over the roar of his senses and the drumming of the rain. He’s frantic, there’s nothing he can do, except applying pressure to the wound, and it’s only a matter of time before he gets shot too or somebody comes over and finishes the job. He’s on the ground, Sherlock half sprawled on top of him. He’s using both of his hands to put some pressure on the wound and the upper part of his body to shelter Sherlock from the rain. He’s blinking slowly, Sherlock is, his eyes fixed on John’s figure, but not really focusing on anything.

“Sherlock, you’ll be alright, but please, stay still, I need you to stay still.” He doesn’t, he keeps gesturing for John to come closer, he keeps trying to talk.

John adjusts himself and lowers as far as he can go without disturbing Sherlock’s injuries.

“What? What, Sherlock, tell me.” Sherlock swallows forcibly.

“Tell... tell my mother,” a shuddering breath, “that I’m sorry.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, you’ll have to tell her yourself.” John’s sure there was a smile dangling at Sherlock’s lips, but it comes and goes so fast, he not entirely certain. Sherlock doesn’t say anything else after that, he just concentrates on not falling unconscious.

A small eternity goes by and hands reach into John and pull him upright, forcing his arms behind his back, he fights it with all he’s got, but it isn’t much— it isn’t _enough_.

Another soldier, with the universally recognised Red Cross painted on his helmet is tending to Sherlock and John keeps yelling for him to help him, to do something, to save him. He’s still screaming and kicking when they drag him away towards the camp.

~~~

“Doctor Watson, can you please follow my finger?”

He’s still fairly wet. Someone put a blanket over him and a nurse is tending to his shoulder, but he can tell from the look on the doctor that whatever it is, it isn’t good.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, follow finger. Yes.” He does as he’s told.

After a few more tests and questions, and a new change of clothes in-between, the doctor takes a deep breath and cocks his head to the side. John speaks first.

“Just tell me. How bad is the infection?”, John’s mind wanders to the redness around the stitches and the fine red line stretching towards his heart. “Am I going to lose the arm?”

“We’re not sure yet.” The doctor has a hesitant look on his face when he says this.

“OK, OK.” No, not OK, but this one is out if his hands, out of his control. “How’s Sherlock?”

“They’ve dug out the bullet, he’s still in surgery, plus he’s in very bad shape, and there’s not much we can do until we get him to other facilities, but first he has to be stabilised.”

“Yes, of course.” John unconsciously goes to touch his left shoulder, which is now under a full padded bandage soaked in antibiotics and his arm in a sling. He stops right before he makes contact with the fabric. His leg twitches.

The doctor takes the pause to interject more details of John’s surgery.

“We’ll need to get you into surgery right away. They’ll come take you immediately. The sulpha tablets you took the past days helped with the infection, but it’s still bad, John. I’ll do my best to save your arm. Any questions?”

John limits himself to nod a few times as he vaguely wonders when exactly they are planning on debriefing him. No one has asked him in full detail about the journey back yet.

~~~

 

He sees himself as a seven-year old on the country side. He and his brother are at their aunt’s cottage, on their mother’s orders, whose too busy arranging their father’s funeral, away from the public eye and the shame. They’re sitting at the edge of the bridge, watching the water flow away at their feet. The stones edges smoothed away by wind and time.

“Will we ever see father again?”

“No, Sherlock, we won’t.” Mycroft’s words are firm and have an air of finality in them. Sherlock feels something prickle behind his eyes and he’s afraid he might cry. _You mustn’t cry_ , Father had told him last summer, after losing a particularly tricky shot on a cricket match. It seems especially important that he follows his orders now, considering he didn’t much listen to him when he was alive.

“Do you think that will make mother sad?” Mycroft stares at the water for a while and then at Sherlock. His usually inscrutable face; a maddening mix of emotions. He hugs Sherlock briefly by the shoulders. Sherlock shakes his embrace away and gets off the railing and back to the safety of the bridge’s pavement. He’s a bit unsteady on his feet and for a few seconds he feels dazed and unsettled, he doesn’t know why, but he can’t quite shake the sensation that he’s forgotten something.

On their way back to the cottage and to their aunt’s suffocating care, Mycroft unsuccessfully tries to a start a conversation with Sherlock, but his younger brother is lost somewhere inside his head, so it turns out more like an intermittent monologue than anything else.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft tries again, “I know I don’t say this often enough, but I care for you. And you will always be my little brother. If you ever need help, I am here for you.” This seems to get Sherlock’s attention, and for the entirety of two seconds he languidly stares at Mycroft’s eyes, as if to read the words he just heard in there. Then, the noise of an airplane engine claims his interest away from Mycroft, and an unexpected surge of energy flashes through Sherlock’s eyes.

“Mycroft, look! It’s a Messer! Can you believe it?! A Messer, here!”

Mycroft’s eyes are open in utter shock and fear, his hands slowly lifting to his face. The plane makes a go-by over their heads and starts to turn around almost a kilometre away. Sherlock’s jumping up and down too excited to either run after the plane or stay still long enough to properly admire it. Another plane rises on the horizon and joins the first one, making a grand circle around the boys and the fields, testing the winds.

Sherlock lifts his hands over his head and reaches into the sky.

“I can feel their heat. _M.E. one-oh-nine_! Aren’t they beautiful?”

Mycroft seems to jolt into action by these words, grabbing Sherlock by his shoulders and pushing him into the direction of the stables. The only structure in sight.

“Run, you silly boy, run!” Sherlock doesn’t quite recognise his brother’s voice, he’s never heard this high-pitched version of him, but he doesn’t care, he’s too busy going over the plane specifications in his mind.

“It’s got MG one-three-one machine guns. Thirteen millimetres, and ammo counter too.” He points, fighting Mycroft’s hands, which are pinning him down to the ground, ducking for cover as the planes open fire, raising a double line of dirt and grass that’s heading straight to them. Sherlock takes his jacket off managing to get rid of Mycroft’s hold in the process, and runs to meet the planes. After three long strides, he slips and hits his knee on a rock, blood immediately gushing out in waves of thick red.

Everything goes pitch black.

 _This is not how the memory goes. But you’re close. Remember, there’s something else you must remember._

He’s back at the bridge. Mycroft’s indulging him, so they’re sitting on the rails, their feet hanging a mere centimetres over the water. They had been talking about father. He’s dead. Sherlock was the one who found him in the study, hanging. He can’t really recall anything else about the matter, not as sharp and genuine as _that_ , anyway. The rest of the affair had been a blur of colours and people. His brother’s talking, but he’s not actually listening. He’s found that if he concentrates on tiny details instead of the bigger picture, he can manage going around without feeling like crying all the time. Still, he knows he shouldn’t but he asks anyway.

“Will we ever see father again?”

After his brother’s response, he wishes they could’ve stayed for the funeral, but mother wouldn’t allow it. Only Mycroft could attend, if he wanted to, but why would he, his father, his _real_ father was still alive, somewhere, but alive.

 _No, this isn’t what you’re supposed to remember. Try harder. Try something else._

He sees himself, age eleven standing in the platform, watching a train go. He feels betrayed and angry, his stomach churning. It hurts terribly, but he won’t tell, he shouldn’t upset mummy, not over something as silly as this. When he gets home he’ll wreck whatever Mycroft didn’t take, and then, he’ll feel better. He’s sure of it.

 _No. Try again._

He’s sixteen and lost. His mind feeding him incoherent data about the world and turning inside out whenever he takes another swig of the bottle. He doesn’t see them coming. Johnson takes his bottle out of his hand, not a laudable task, considering the state he had been in, and throws it to the ground, at his feet. He thinks it may be meant to scare him, so he recoils on purpose to please the audience. The laughs that it elicits from the other boys, his classmates, are animated enough for him to consider his mission accomplished. Two of them grab him whilst Johnson hits him twice on the stomach. He doubles over in pain and they let him crumble to the ground, one of them stepping over his back in the process of the retreat. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was that Johnson kid.

 _Getting closer. Come one, one more time._

The first day, he sees a Messer going down in flames, the ME 109 to be exact. The pilot jumping at the very last second, his parachute never deploying. _Poor son of a bitch_ someone had said and his breath had hitched at the sight.

 _Data_ , he needed more data before he could even think of making progress. His brain was constantly on overdrive, had been ever since his mother had fallen ill. “Six months”, the doctor said, and she had already outlived the prognosis by two, so far.

 _Yes, this is the one, hold on to it, hold on._

At night it was impossible to get any sleep, not enough silence, and not enough movement to pass as white noise. He could only wander so far, before some private or other dragged him back to the camp. He needed to sleep, he needed to think, and he needed some quiet place for him to do both. “There’s no such thing on the frontlines, son, so you better do your job or get out.” The colonel said and he had swallowed his comments on it, and with that, his pride.

He falls fast asleep on the less probable of all places: on the jeep, when they’re moving him north. After three weeks of restless sleep and constant turning and fussing on bed (or what passes for a bed around here), sleeping on a lumpy seat on their way to dangerous lands on a bumpy road, certainly feels like heaven. Being awakened by an explosion seems like the rudest awakening ever. Then again, waking up to the solitude of the aftermath had been worse. Far worse.

 _You’ve got it. Only one more piece missing._

He can’t believe his eyes when he sees him. The comforting feel of a familiar weapon directed at him sending joyful vibes all over his body. He can’t believe his luck either, for him, for _John_ , to be a doctor.

 _Oh, John._

~~~

The smell of disinfectant hits his nostrils so hard it actually hurts him. He opens his eyes and closes them immediately; the light too harsh, his sight too long unused. He forces himself to open his eyes again and a white sheet comes into focus. It’s from the bed next to him. An older, unshaved man is beneath those sheets, his eyes opened and tongue mildly sticking out. A part of him is trying to find out whether the man is dead or alive, but he can’t really concentrate long enough for that. The other part of his brain is still blissfully asleep.

He goes about the room, moving nothing but his eyes, his body extremely heavy, impossible to disturb now. There are two more beds, both unoccupied. He’s about to go back to the dead-or-not mystery when he feels a pull from the centre of his body, a puddle of warmness pooling there. Even though he fights it, the warmness and the constant sinking sensation drag him back to sleep.

The second time he wakes up, the disinfectant isn’t so strong, or at least doesn’t feel so bad. On the other hand, previous stimuli that went unnoticed before make enough noise to be noticed now. His thorax feels like it has an elephant sitting on top of it. His head hurts only on his left side, but hurts enough that his vision on that eye is blurry and constricting, every edge of the room sending blinding pierces of pain to his skull; he can almost feel his head thrumming to the rhythm of his breathing.

There’s a radio playing somewhere outside the room and the unshaved guy with his tongue sticking out is gone (quite possibly deceased). He starts assessing the rest of his body past the expected pains and aches. From the bottom up, his leg is on a plaster cast, his entire upper body is tightly wrapped in bandages and there’s and IV drip pushing fluids and painkillers –thank god- into his blood stream. He lifts his hand and touches his face, there’s quite a bit of stubble in there, considerably beyond the 5-o’clock-shadow he so rarely sported when too busy to shave. _Unacceptable_ , his inner voice provides and for a moment he wonders if perhaps _he is_ in fact tongue-sticking-out guy and therefore deceased. No, better not to think like that, tangential thoughts could land him on the wrong side of reason and he’s far too pumped up on painkillers to allow himself wander off like that.

So, stubble, three-day worth and not restrained to the bed. Back to the friendly side then, into a proper hospital.

He wiggles his toes and witnesses the sheet ruffle at his feet. It’s enough to send a jolt of pain through his knee up his leg, but also enough to make him happy that so far he hasn’t lost his ability to walk. Life would be impossibly boring if he was somewhat unable to run around the city for one reason or another. Life would be simply _unbearable_ actually, if that was the case. _No, no tangents._

Three days. Proper hospital. Incredibly high on painkillers. Leg on a plaster cast. _I’ve been shot!_ , he suddenly remembers. And with that comes a tidal wave of memories from the journey. The gritty feeling of dirt up to his nostrils. The warm touch of John as he was changing his bandages. The cold of the night. The cold of John’s anger at his prying eyes, at his own embarrassment.

The door swings open and it throws him off his thinking trail. He’s left wide-eyed staring at a taut older man wearing a white coat. _A doctor_ , his brain provides, _he’s a doctor_. There’s a look of surprise on the doctor’s face and he quickly backs out of the door and calls for a nurse. When he comes back he immediately rushes to Sherlock’s bedside and puts two fingers to his neck, taking his pulse.

“How’re you feeling, Mr Holmes?”

He hasn’t used his voice for some time and it takes him a while to gather enough energy to produce sound, so it comes out rather rough, or at least rougher than he expected.

“I’m not Mr Holmes, my father was Mr Holmes. I’m Sherlock, nothing else.”

“Good, OK. Mr… Sherlock, your pulse is a bit slow, but that is to be expected. Do you know the date?”

Does he actually know the date? Improbable, even without getting shot and walking twenty kilometres on a busted knee, he rarely knows the exact date.

“June. Around the 20th of June.” He gives it a try anyway.

“Good. What year?”

“1944, of course.” His voice also feels a bit better, a bit more like himself.

“Alright. How’s the pain?” That question brings back the image of John asking him the same thing under the French sky in the middle of a wheat field. Something flutters at the pit of his stomach and he gives a side-glance to his IV bag wandering whether there’s such thing as too many painkillers.

~~~

“What do you mean I can’t go see him?”

“Mr Watson, please. I can’t let you out of the room yet, your injuries are healing, you could rip your stitches; it’s just not an option.”

John’s sitting on a hospital bed; his back precariously leaned against the wall, carefully avoiding his left side. He’s dressed on a flimsy hospital gown tied on his back. A glass of water resting on his night table and at least a dozen eyes bouncing between him and Mrs Calloway, the nurse.

“This is ridiculous. You _do_ realise we’re like ten metres away, right? I mean, what could possibly happen over that stretch?” Mrs Calloway starts giving him the thousand-yard stare he’s reserved for her most unwelcoming patients and John hurriedly adds, “never mind, whatever, I’m going.”

“Mr Watson…”, she starts.

“Don’t _Mr-Watson_ me, I know, I get it. I’m a doctor. I understand. Ripped stitches, dizziness, I get it, I really do. I just want to check on him.” He swings his feet over the edge of the bed and hops to the floor, he gives one unsteady pace and sways where he stands, feeling a blush creeping to his face. He catches himself on the wall, narrowly avoiding the night table. _Way to go, John. You sure as hell convinced the nurse that you were fine._ A few sniggers from his roommates encourage him to stand straighter; he’s not giving up.

The nurse gives him a pointed look and raises her eyebrows. He holds her stare and resorts to pleading, doing his best impression of puppy-eyes, but Mrs Calloway is having none of it. Hands on her hips and chin tucked down, she’s staring him down as you would a very naughty dog, her message clear; _get back into bed or else_.

She’s a tall, well defined woman, with curves that could make you swoon and forget your name in a nanosecond, but John knows better than to let himself be fooled by her looks, she’s heard the stories from the other soldiers, one of them assures she wrestled him to the ground and pin him there as if he was nothing more than a fluffy pillow. John also knows better than to ask why he had to be restrained in the first place.

Maybe, he thinks to himself, he can blame the swaying and swarming in his head to her beauty. Appeal to her vanity and womanly passions to get away with his will. However, he’s more afraid of what she could do to him if he falls into the wrong choice of words, than if he tries to bypass her to his friend’s room by pure stubbornness and sheer force of will. No, not a good idea. Pleading some more then.

“Please? Five minutes. I’ll even go in a wheelchair if that’s what it takes.”

 _”Please, Please”_ , John’s roommates call from their respective beds. “He’ll behave!”, another one adds. “Yes, he’ll be good!” the private to his left claims, joining his hands under his chin, in a begging stance.

The nurse laughs softly under her breath and throws up his hands.

The men cheer.

Ten minutes later John’s bundled up in a thick green blanket (his feet tucked in too), being wheeled to Sherlock’s room by an orderly.

The orderly pushes open the door and John has to admonish himself with a stern inner voice; he’s fussing, almost jumping on the wheel chair, which seems exceedingly inappropriate for a 29-year old army doctor. “ _Easy_ ”, he tells himself when all the contained excitement, jolts his shoulder and he feels most of his blood drain away from his face. The orderly drops him off at the side of Sherlock’s bed and reminds him that he only has ten minutes, tapping the watch on his wrist as he goes out.

Sherlock’s pale and looks sunken on the bed, as if it’s about to swallow him whole. A plaster cast’s sticking out through the sheets, his upper body wrapped in bandages, a gauze pad on the back, rounding its way to the front, completely warping the straight lines of his body. A duvet’s covering his leg and up to his belly.

“Aren’t you cold?”, John asks, and he knows it’s a terrible conversation opener, but after holding the pieces of Sherlock together in the rain, what else is left to say?

Sherlock shakes his head and pulls the duvet a little closer. His eyes wander off to John’s arm, which’s still very much in bandages and in a sling, close to his chest. It’s John’s turn to shake his head ever so slightly and a small smile spreads over Sherlock’s lips.

“Glad you got to keep the arm.”

“Yeah, well, if they let you keep your charming personality, why not my arm?”, Sherlock’s smile widens at that. “They still had to take some of the muscle out. So, I have an arm; just don’t know how much of it it’s still functional.”

Sherlock nods absentmindedly a few times, and crooks an eyebrow, looks to the other side of the room and then back to John. He doesn’t say anything else though.

A song echoes through the hall and into the room, it’s from a radio that’s lost on the insides of the hospital and its intricate corridors. John doesn’t recognise the song and suddenly realises that’s what his life is going to be like from now on. He will no longer recognise the streets or the people. Even if he were to come back to the city that watched him grow, he would still be lost. There’s so little mundane aspects of him left, all he can remember is the war.

John’s agitation’s coming back –for good reason- and he can see Sherlock’s having a bit of an awkward moment himself.

“So, I just wanted to come see you, make sure you were OK.” John tries for a second time to start a conversation. Sensing his time is almost up.

“Thanks, John.”

“You welcome, mate. It was kind of my job to help you.”

“No, I mean…”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.”

The orderly chooses that exact moment to come take John back to his room. When the door to his room opens his roommates cheer and one of them throws him a dirty sock. He already misses the quiet –even if a bit awkward silence- of Sherlock’s room.

~~~

He’s been debriefed and asked as many questions as the officers could think of. He repeats his story over and over again, signs the reports and swallows the lumps at the back of his throat with as much dignity as he can muster. They wheel him to a different room after his interviewing session is finished and he’s thankful for the time alone, for the silence. Somehow he holds back the overwhelming sense of exposure that threatens to overcome him, squeezing his hand against the fabric of his trousers. He’s afraid that if he starts crying now, he’ll never stop.

It’s been two weeks since his surgery, the arm still hurts quite a bit, but much less than right after getting emergency surgery (or getting shot for that matter). He’s in dire need of physiotherapy and he doubts he’ll be able to live on his own for a while. He knows he’s leaving by the end of the week -ergo, two days-, but he just can’t bring himself to make plans. He’s happy, or at least, he thinks he ought to be. It’s just, everything pretty much seems like a giant blur, a smudge that’s supposed to represent the last three years of his life. It’s a very much indescribable feeling. The Major walks in just then and tells him about his possibilities, about coast hospitals, about physiotherapy, about returning home a hero. He doesn’t care about being a hero, he couldn’t care less about where to go or if a medal suits his needs at the moment. He lets the Major know exactly that. “ _Small ceremony then_ ”, the Major answers and it’s settled.

The next day he decides he’s going to walk everywhere he wants to go, he’s sick and tired of the wheelchair and orderlies, quite literally, pushing him around. He puts on a roommate’s trousers and a blanket over his shoulders and walks straight through the front door into the garden. He admires the view for a moment and then bends down to pick a flower at his feet. His right leg buckles under him and he lands on the floor on his right side, curling his arm protectively over the other. A nurse rushes to his side to help him but stops dead on her tracks as John starts to laugh. The nurse lets out a long breath as he rolls over on his back and looks up, covering the sun with his hand to get a better look.

“Aren’t we clumsy today?”, the nurse tells him and he laughs again. More like a giggle this time, when it dies down enough he takes a deep calming breath and smiles to her.

“Yes, very. Any chance you can help me getting up?” The nurse bends over and carefully passes an arm under his. After some pulling and tugging, they’re both on their feet and on their way back to the ward.

The nurse puts him in the first wheelchair they pass by and admonishes him about wandering off like that on a bad leg. He jokingly answers he had forgotten all about it, until he tried to pick that flower up. “It must be all the joy riding on wheelchairs, I hadn’t noticed my leg was…”, he makes a gesture towards his leg.

“Well, don’t worry, I’ll tell the doctor so he can check it over.”

“Thank you..?”

“Melanie, my name is Melanie.”

“Well, thank you Melanie.” He says in a sing-song voice.

When Nurse Melanie passes the ward Sherlock’s in on their way to John’s, John asks if she could better drop him off in there instead, whilst she goes look for the doctor. She agrees and wheels him into the room. Sherlock, who was apparently asleep, abruptly opens his eyes and glares at the newcomers, gradually softening his expression as he lays eyes on John. Nurse Melanie makes a hasty retreat, having already dealt with Sherlock’s black moods.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“What brings you here?”

“I… I’m… umm,” _why is this so hard?_ , “I wanted to say goodbye. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“I know, I was wondering when you would come by.”

“Well, as usual secrets are well kept in military facilities…”

“Oh, please, it’s in your file, it says you’re to be discharged at six hundred hours tomorrow. Hardly a secret.” John laughs a bit at that. “So, will you find me when this is over? You know, back home?”

“You mean to say you won’t get yourself killed?”

“Yeah, it also means you get to live… so?”

“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”

“Good.” He relaxes back into the wall a bit, sinking on his pillows. “So, I see you took a rumble on the ground. What was that for? Trying to get the nurse’s attention?”

“Ha! I should’ve, but no, that was not it, I tripped.”

“Tripped? It’s called tripping nowadays. Interesting.” John throws a hearty laugh, leaning his head back and shaking it after.

“Unbelievable…”, he says under his breath. He looks at Sherlock: still stiff moves and bandaged around the chest. He is, in spite of everything and against all odds, very much alive.

There’s a knock on the door and immediately after Nurse Melanie’s head pops in. “The Doctor’s ready for you now, Doctor Watson”.

“Sure, just, one minute.” John grabs the rail of the chair and hoists himself up on his feet, extending his right hand to Sherlock. “It was quite an honour meeting you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smiles tightly and shakes his hand back. “Quite an honour meeting _you_ , John Watson. Think about it.”

“I will.” John lets go of Sherlock’s hand and sits back on the chair, motioning the nurse to come in. When she’s wheeling him out he makes her stop and turns around to look at Sherlock.

“So, Sherlock, I’ve been meaning to ask you…”

“Ask away.”

“Does it hurt?”, the nurse gives John a funny look and looks at Sherlock, curious about his answer. Sherlock’s cheek start to turn pink and a huge grin is spreading on his face. His left arm holding this chest.

“Only when I laugh, John, only when I laugh.” John’s laughter can be heard from the reception desk as Nurse Melanie wheels him to an examination room, where the doctor’s waiting to check him out.

The next day, John wakes up at five in the morning to get ready for his discharge. There’s a fresh uniform waiting for him at his bedside table and a razor. He goes about it as best as he can without help. Twenty minutes later an orderly comes in and helps him put on his shirt, tying his shoes, straightening his tie.

At five fifty the doctor walks in, discharge papers in hand and hands him a pen.

“Are you ready to go home, Doctor Watson?”

John inhales deeply through his nose and holds it for a second.

“Yes, I am.”

~End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got completely out of my control. Can you believe this chapter alone is like a third of the entire word-count? Anyway.
> 
> Here are the Wikipedia pages for the [ME-109 (Messerschmitt Bf 109)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Messerschmitt_Bf_109) and the [machine gun MG 131](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MG_131_machine_gun). Hope you enjoyed the story.
> 
> The next chapter is an epilogue. Thanks for reading.
> 
>  **EDIT (December 2011):** no epilogue, guys, sorry, but I lost my connection with this story due to hectic-ness of academic life. However if anyone feels inspired enough to write one, go ahead (and let me know)! In my vision of the epilogue they found each other in London through Mike and ended up being flatmates. Considering this was an AU, I kinda loved the idea of ending it where the BBC started.


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